


Thanatophobia

by MythosMeta



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythosMeta/pseuds/MythosMeta
Summary: post-timeskip CF route pov alternating for the aesthetic. Speaking of aesthetic, it should be lysinnette. annsithea
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Lysithea von Ordelia
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

Lysithea has a good memory. 

She’s speculated that the cause is her iron will to make use of her young life. She remembers every piece of antique furniture, corner of chipped paint, each little trinket and bauble in her childhood home. She remembers all one hundred and forty-seven formulas that were on the last exam she took at the monastery, not the last for the course, but the last their class was able to take. 

And right now, she is using every ounce of that will to keep these details floating to the surface at a steady pace, to separate the cream from the bitter curd as she was wont to do. A desperate bid to not remember, just this once. Involuntarily, the images and sensations swarm.

Annette’s reluctance, Mercedes, Gilbert, Claude, Dmitri, Annette again, the back of her ripped uniform retreating, the ashy taste of death in Lysithea’s mouth, on the faces of people she recognized.

She would not allow this to overtake her. Not now, during the most survivable battle they’ve had in weeks. She hasn’t turned her head from her opponent but she can feel the presence of her magical teammates, hear the cries of bloodshed dwindling. The rush to get things done still darkens her doorway, just as Hanneman had that morning at the dorm, Crestology textbook in hand. She has something now that had taken her too many long years to acquire. She will protect this mere bud of a hope for her future to her last. 

The sight of Annette’s matured face and very mature warhammer, however, are not helping her remain calm.

The inner battle rages on, cowardly doubt creeping in at the edges of her awareness, nearly calling forth a volley of protective dark spikes to her hand in the same moment she chooses to stay it.

This is not the rebellion. Even if this goes terribly wrong, the Eagles won’t let her take the fall. Lysithea is no longer the name of a helpless child. The inner workings from which she draws her magic focus down to a visualized point. Grasping tight the thorns that have always surrounded her, she rips the impulse to lash out by the roots. There is, after all, no time to waste on indecision.

She is familiar with the concept of having to hurt to heal, steeled herself for it every time she marched into Hanneman's office and marched out to join the generals on the front lines of change. In her mind’s eye, the water that leaks from the stems washes under her fingernails, bits of dried blood beginning to flake away. 

“Annie,” rushes out in the flood before she can question it.

Annette’s laugh is familiar— nervous, as though she isn’t on a battlefield being stared down by a friend who betrayed her, someone she had been ordered to smite as penance— but had just walked in on one of the professor’s tea parties.

“You sound like Mercie. Doesn’t help that your voice changed a little.” Annette hesitates, extending the stillness of the fresh graveyard. “You’re taller,” she adds pointlessly. 

Lysithea smirks despite herself. “Did you get shorter?” 

Annette frowns, not unkindly, but her inhale ramps up to a gasp as Edelgard clears the brush, Aymr clenched in her gauntleted fists. The tension in her regal countenance is not lost on Lysithea.

“Your Majesty,” she acknowledges in Annette’s stead.

She comes to a halt in melee range, her short boots sinking into the soaked earth. In the pregnant pause, Edelgard examines their latest captive. 

“... What do you think, Lysithea?” 

“I believe—” she answers immediately, without truly knowing what she’ll say, “—we should give her a chance. She was my rival.” 

Her Majesty’s brow rises minutely.

Well, Annette always did hale a storm on her heels. Lysithea reflexively straightens her back, like she can replace the newly-shaken foundation of her logic with squared shoulders. 

“It is uncommon,” Edelgard notes to Annette’s blown gaze, “for our prospective troops to appear with a voucher, from my inner circle no less.” She rests Aymr’s head in the dirt, leaning forward on its handle conversationally. 

Lysithea, half-turned to the treeline— an illusion of privacy she supposes— rests her eyes on a tall shadow the second before it vanishes in a waft of dark magic. Illusions, indeed. She mentally congratulates herself for catching on to Edelgard’s quick relaxation, and finds her shoulders dropping by degrees as well. 

The curiosities of the day show no signs of stopping.


	2. Chapter 2

“Annette Fantine Dominic,” the authoritative voice rings in her ears, “will you be taking advantage of this rare opportunity?”

“Rare, huh…” 

Edelgard sweeps a hand across the surrounding field. “Only in the chance to offer,” she says, with no small amount of gravity. “An apology hardly begins to account for the loss, but I _am_ sorry about your battalion.” She continues stonily, “They fought bravely. It left us little choice.”

Something in the back of Annette’s mind whispers that the Emperor is trying to convince her. It nags at her, distracting; even at war, Edelgard had never been one for cruel tricks.

Then Lysithea turns back to meet her eyes, a touch less guarded, and Annette understands. They want her to agree because they have no desire to kill her.

And that’s what would happen, wouldn’t it? She’s a backbone of the Lions, the Kingdom, she’s seen too many plans, met too many people. She’s a liability. The Empire would be more than saints to let her knowledge escape. They would be fools.

In the longest minute of her life, Annette knew she would think of her friends, of her family. A passing breeze flutters the ends of Lysithea’s veil into her shoulder, and she thinks of _these_ friends, of _this_ family. There may not be a right answer, but there is only one that will allow her to move forward.

“All right,” she says. “What do I have to do?”

* * *

Over the next several days, she became a resident at their camp, negotiating her contract with Her Majesty. It didn’t have to be a contract, Edelgard assured her, but Annette needed to be certain. And if there was any hand-wringing or pacing or grieving to be done… her bedroll had no one else to tell.

She stayed in the Emperor’s tent long past visiting hours, trading profiles and locations for the promise of recruitment or at least the best attempt at a sparing, under the watchful eye and meticulous notes of Hubert. They’d hardly spoken at the academy, perhaps a brief exchange about Reason studies as they sidled around each other in the kitchen, but Annette was determined not to be intimidated twice. She carried Lysithea’s insistence on her confidence with her, even as they went their separate ways. She made sure to smile for every meeting.

She eventually had to accept the Emperor and her right hand kept their cool composure no matter how friendly the face. And here she’d thought Fhirdiad was chilly.

Today, she stuffs her capelet and gloves into her satchel, borrowed from Manuela’s stockpile, and shuffles into the makeshift mess hall. There are plenty of people Annette recognizes, but none she’d be comfortable striking up a casual chat with so soon. What with the… recent disagreement. 

She collects her share and walks it out to a small patch of wildflowers to sit cross-legged in the grass. Looking at them closer, she realizes they’re probably weeds. Well it doesn’t matter, she concludes, they aren’t bothering anyone. They still have flowers of their own. Even weeds are just trying to get by doing their own thing. 

Annette leans back, flopping to the ground to watch the clouds instead. Taking a bite of her boiled potato, her nose scrunches at the plain starch. She knows how to butter a potato. She could’ve made this better. Probably.

“May I join you?” 

Craning her neck, and definitely getting dirt in her hair, she spots Lysithea’s upside down frown. Unfortunately, it did not transform into a smile. 

“Um. Yes?” 

“What have I told you about that devastating lack of resolve?” Lysithea sighs, stepping to the side and folding her legs under her.

“That it would be easier to have if not for the look on your face?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lysithea threatens more than asks. “What is wrong with my face?” 

“Nothing!” She scrambles, “Absolutely nothing, seriously I— not a single— you just looked upset. Is all.” 

“Upset.” The period strikes like a high heel on a frozen lake.

“… Aren’t you?” 

“Well.” And Annette feels this one too, less severe. “I would rather be sitting in a chair right now. At a table? Like a civilized person? Does the concept ring a bell.” 

Annette can’t stop herself from lightly giggling at the flat delivery. She expects Lysithea to snap at the perceived belittling. When she turns to check, though, her company looks relieved. 

She wants to ask, but what comes out of her mouth next is, “I used to have an inch on you, you know.” 

“What’s that?”

“A unit of measurement, like a foot, but smaller. I thought you passed—” She cuts herself off laughing as Lysithea swats her shoulder. 

“I never should have taught you how to give people attitude.” Lysithea is frowning again, extra hard, like she’s struggling not to smile.

“And you never did. No matter how much I asked. Maybe I’ve been studying at the school of Alois?” 

“Alois would never be able to come up with a response that funny.” 

“You got me. I learned from Mercie.” Instead of letting that hang in the air, she continues, “Oh, but, what I was saying was, _I_ used to be taller. You were making fun of me earlier.” 

“I see,” Lysithea says, cryptic, and Annette braces for payback. “So you did get shorter.” 

_“Lysithea,”_ she whines, petulant. “Fine. It’s okay. Being short is cute.”

“Is that so?” She asks, apparently absorbed in neatly cutting the pheasant she let cool during the verbal spar. 

“Of course. I mean. You, uh. Actually, nevermind.”

Lysithea squints from the corner of her eye. “… If you insist.”

“Thanks.” She fiddles with her bow, knowing it’s on straight. “So. When do you think we’ll get to the next stronghold?”

Lysithea hums thoughtfully. “At the current rate, the closest expected large-scale battle will take place in three days.” Her forkful leaves the plate, but doesn’t make it to her lips. “They won’t say it but everyone wants me to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh,” Annette says, feeling all three inches between them acutely. “Is that why you’re here?”

Lysithea hastily waves off her thoughts between bites. “Not _now,_ on the field. Why would the likes of the Emperor and her other generals need me to watch one mage in their own camp?” 

She groans. “I don’t know. I guess I thought… I dunno what I thought.”

“If you thought Her Majesty took a break from winning the war to ask me to babysit you, she did no such thing.” She shakes her head. “Ridiculous.”

“When you say it like that… yeah. Thanks.” 

“That’s enough thanksgiving for today,” she decides, climbing to her feet and brushing off her leggings. “Do try to stay out of trouble, though, will you?” She’s improved at subtle farewells, Annette muses. “And finish your supper.” Somewhat.

Annette salutes from the dirt. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be a model student,” she promises, shovelling most of the food in her mouth at once.

Lysithea rolls her eyes, just begging Annette’s fond look to follow her all the way to her tent.


End file.
